Fall
by PaulBlartorias
Summary: There is a moment in which we are between this life and the next. Between light and dark. Between human and hollow. A moment when we are nobody at all, but still remember who we were. A moment when we dread the next, before we fall into nothing. Series of pretentiously stylised one-shots.
1. Solaire

Light shines brightest in the darkest of places.

Perhaps it was foolish of you to seek the sun – _your_ sun – in Anor Londo. But no matter. You didn't find what you were looking for, perhaps, but you did find hope. Renewed vigour. An affirmation of belief.

Hope is a fleeting thing, of course. And you've held on to it for so long already.

You never doubted yourself. Not until Izalith. You couldn't afford to doubt yourself. To lose purpose, to lose faith, was to go hollow.

Some things proved false. Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight. Surely a figure worthy of admiration, of respect, of devotion.

Not devotion.

He does not watch over you. Anor Londo imbued you with hope, but not in Gwyn. A great warrior, a great Lord he was, worthy of praise, but not devotion. Not anymore.

The firstborn, then. The nameless heir of sunlight, said to watch still over his holy warriors. Even at his shattered altar you could not feel his presence.

And the sun. You saw it in Anor Londo, but it wasn't… it wasn't all there. Oh, it _looked_ like the sun you remember from your youth, but it didn't feel like the sun. The stones of Anor Londo did not sparkle under its gaze, nor shimmer from the heat.

The sun was fading, you thought. It strengthened your resolve. You would find your own sun. A new sun.

You came to doubt Gwyn, his child, the sun itself.

If no gods would watch over the warriors of sunlight, you would do it for them. Someone had to.

And you never doubted yourself.

Not until you saw chaos.

Izalith is lit not by gold, but by fiery red. The sun warms; chaos burns. The sun illuminates; chaos seethes.

If this is to be the new sun, you thought, you want nothing of it.

But what else is there? The sun above is fading, unable to warm Anor Londo and hardly piercing the shroud of Blighttown. Perhaps light may yet be found within the Tomb of the Giants?

You know the answer. It is a dark place.

Necessity outweighs want. Want had nothing to do with it. Chaos was not the sun you desired, but it might be the only sun left. You claimed that ring of Izalith from the demon it spawned and set forth into the bowels of the world.

Chaos was no sun at all, you found. It twisted everything it touched. The malformed remnants of dragons, the surviving citizens of the city (and you mean surviving in the loosest sense of the word), even the Witches who birthed it. Chaos is not a tool with which to build a new world. It is a force of nature.

And yet you still compared it to the sun.

Is the sun not a force of nature, not to be tamed, not to be controlled?

Should it too not be left alone?

Perhaps that was Gwyn's folly, to claim the sun.

You dispelled such thoughts and pressed on.

And then you found it.

Your own sun.

Something you could tame.

Something you could control.

It beckoned to you. It soothed you. It told you that your efforts were not in vain. That your doubts were but a trial. That, if only you claimed it, you could build a new world. A brighter world. A happier world.

A world with you at its centre.

It's what you want, isn't it?

To be worshipped. To be loved. Maybe it's just the way you are. To want, as all men want.

You removed your helm and claimed the sun.

 _Solaire._

That was your voice, telling him your name.

It tried to remind him who he was.

What he stood for.

What he wanted.

His endless ambition.

His will to achieve it.

All undone by a cruel mockery.

* * *

 **Won't be keeping any particular update schedule, this is just more to experiment (and procrastinate), but if I write something, I may as well upload it.**


	2. Lucatiel

Sometimes, you must remind yourself.

Your name is Lucatiel. It's the only thing that stays with you, on the days when your brother's face fades to the recesses of your mind. He has a name too, not just a face. You know you knew it, once. But you don't remember it.

Not for a long time.

Today is worse than most. You don't remember how you died, but you remember being dead, for a brief eternity. And you remember the light that beckoned you back. The bonfire.

It's right there in front of you.

You hate death. But you are good at dying. You've done it so many times now. Every time, a little less of you comes back.

Do you remember your first battle? Your first _real_ battle. You stood side by side with a face that you remember but you're not sure why. Maybe it's your brother's. Maybe it's somebody whose name you never knew in the first place, but whose face stuck with you for all this time.

It can't be your brother's. This man – you saw him die. That's why you remember it. You saw him die. You'd never seen that before.

Death is an old nemesis, now.

And an old friend. You hate dying, but in that small time between body and bonfire, you are comforted. You are released. Blissfully ignorant of your fading sense of self.

It's like a drug, and you hate it for tempting you.

But it feels familiar, even now, though you are not dead. There is a haze over your vision, over your mind, over your memories. All you see is the bonfire. Everything else is a blur. Your mouth is dry – have you been talking? Your eyes are heavy – how long has it been since you've slept?

Whose face is that?

A fire runs through you, like the fire of the bonfire. Your name is Lucatiel, you remind yourself.

You stagger to your feet.

The sword in your hand is familiar. You're not sure where you learned to fight, but the muscles remember how it's done. You swipe at air as you walk, feeling those same muscles warm to the practiced movements.

Your name is Lucatiel, and you know how to fight.

Did you… you prided yourself on it. Yes.

That face is your brother's. It is like yours, right down to the-

You shake your head and press onwards, up a flight of stairs.

The face is like yours, right down to the decrepit mark devouring the skin.

You stumble towards it, and it strikes you down.

Clarity. Your name is Lucatiel. You hail from Mirrah. You could wield a sword almost before you could walk, but your brother was always better. And his name was-

It's all gone.

You're at the bonfire again.

And you know you should remember your name, but you can't. Surely you know? Surely – who could forget their own name?

You can find it again. You know it.

You stumble away from the bonfire. The man wearing your face, right down to the decrepit mark devouring the skin – he strikes you down.

Your name is Lucatiel.

You have no name.

The bonfire. Shambling steps. Desperation. Something in this strange place gives you purpose, though it slips from your memory like water.

Your name is Lucatiel. Hold on to-

The bonfire again.

The world passes you by in a haze.

 _Lucatiel._

Your voice, giving her a name.

But she is only a shell now, trapped to the bonfire, and she cannot hear you. Not anymore.


	3. Artorias

It is dark.

It has been for some time. Although you can't quite put a number to that – how many hours, how many days? It's been so long since you've seen the sky. And some would call you strange, but it is the blue sky that you love, not the bright yellow eye that garnishes it.

How far away is the sky? You don't know if you've been moving. You've been walking, for sure – walking for so long that your legs feel near enough ready to give way beneath you. But there's never been a sense of movement.

There's never been a sense of much, really. Only existence is sure. After all – thought has not yet eluded you.

Are you even you, anymore?

This is not your first descent, but it is your first fall. You've walked the Abyss before.

And even then, you doubted yourself, didn't you? You doubted the strength of your arm and the strength of your shield and the strength of your heart, but again and again you journeyed down, down into the darkness, not on faith, but on necessity.

Hope or no hope, you would answer the call.

You think you should have hit the bottom. For what feels like an age, your body has been spirited deeper and deeper into nothingness, dragged behind a mind that spirals downwards with no foundation, no respite, a harbinger for your deteriorating sense of self.

It would be so easy to let go. What would it be like to die? Nothingness can be a comfort – and if there's an afterlife, it would be a joyous reunion. You've lost so many friends through the years. For ever demon, a dozen knights; for every dragon, three.

But what would it be like to lose yourself?

To never care again, to never feel again, to never suffer again, but to live on anyway. There's no reason to fear. You wouldn't be capable of fear. But, right now, you fear it anyway – not for the nothingness that awaits you, but for those you'd leave behind. For those you could hurt in your madness.

Gough, a formidable warrior in his own right, and the truest friend you've ever had – but blind, and past his prime, and trapped alone up there in that tower.

Ornstein, alone in an empty city but for the illusion of a Goddess and the Executioner. A lonely soul, always standing on the outside looking in. He's lonely by nature. He doesn't like it. It's just the way he is.

Ciaran. Oh, Ciaran. She would be heartbroken, for a time. You don't want to cause anyone pain, her least of all. You could almost picture her…

You try to picture her.

You cannot.

Sif, then. You can recall her – whimpering in the infinite blackness on an island of holy light. It broke your heart to leave her behind, but it was better this way. She would be safe for a long while.

Perhaps long enough for somebody to save her. Or perhaps the shield's power has already given out. You don't remember how long ago that was. Mere seconds, perhaps. Or hours. Days.

You've been broken for a long time, haven't you? But, in truth you've never been whole in the first place. Doubt has gnawed at you all your life. You've questioned every victory. Is it real? Is it right? Can you even claim it as your own?

You remember, don't you? The day you returned to Lord Gwyn's court. He proclaimed you a hero, and it felt wrong.

You weren't alone in your triumph – nobody could have traversed the darkness of New Londo unaided. And it was hardly a triumph.

Thousands were condemned to the watery deep. What did you achieve?

 _Nothing._

The Abyss whispers to you. It's been a burden. You always felt that it was your fault. That if you'd fought harder, bolder, stronger – that if you were truly the knight they all thought you were, New Londo would have been spared.

You are a failure. A fraud.

The Abyss whispers to you.

It says that it was not your fault. That you did your best. That it was Lord Gwyn – he made the choice. And the Abyss isn't wrong. But it's not right either.

Are you falling into the Abyss? Or is the Abyss falling into you?

It has whispered in your skull for a long time, but only now you can hear it. A thousand voices, beckoning you, welcoming you, comforting you, like that afterlife of reunion, begging you to join it.

And yours. Your voice. Calling you away, calling you home, where you'll rest peacefully, never doubting yourself again.

There is no silver pendant to stave off the darkness.

Only the image of a white mask discarded on the grass, of a rare smile under a blue sky that you worked hard to coax from a woman who loves you even though she shouldn't.

You cry out to her, and your voice is your own, distinct from the dissonant chorus.

Your feet find purchase in the Abyss, and you walk deeper.

There are shapes in the darkness. They weren't there before – they were in your head. They manifest like the humanity you saw burst forth from overflowing Darkwraiths. But here, they are pure. They have not been defiled by some broken knight with delusions of grandeur.

With one hand, you heft your sword, and the humanity is defiled by a broken knight with delusions of grandeur.

The Abyss returns. It does not whisper. It roars.

It hates you.

Like you hate you.

You're not moving, but it feels as though you are falling nonetheless.

You see her again in your mind. Rare smile. White mask. Black sky.

You stagger forwards. The impact of your boot striking the swirling ground ripples through your tattered soul.

Rare smile. Cracked mask. Black sky.

Another step. Surely you are close, now.

Frozen smile. Cracked mask. Black sky.

To the bottom.

 _Artorias._

You picture her in your mind, broken or otherwise, and take another step. You're no hero. But you're here now. You're always there, where you need to be, doing what needs to be done. Somebody has to.

 _Artorias._

Another step.

And then you are falling again, into the maw of the abyss. There's a shape in the darkness, a twisted, misshapen thing that scuttles towards you faster than its size should permit.

You raise your sword.

 _Artorias._

You whisper once more.

He roars back. It is not an expression of rage, or of desire, or of despair. But it is intriguing – primal, raw, and full of passion.

But its purpose is hidden to you beneath endless layers of insanity.

And of relief.


	4. Gael

Step.

By.

Step.

It's how you've lived your long life. One foot after the other. One more step. One more dark soul. One more. One more. One more.

One more battle. For every dragon, threescore knights. And not all of those knights came back. Fewer came back sane.

You're the last slave knight now.

A dying breed. But you can't die. _Won't_ die. As long as you keep telling yourself that, you are immortal. You are unstoppable. Bound to the bonfire, an immortal moth to flame. It _hurts_ , every time. It tears at your soul, at your mind.

Step by step. It's the one thought that keeps you sane.

Does it matter who the slave knights were? You've all been wiped from history. But what did you do to deserve it? You never betrayed your lord. You never shared estus with the nameless fool. All you ever did was throw yourself into battle to die, over and over again. You have died as nobody else has died, _suffered_ like no other has suffered.

But you're free now. You're free to have a name, you're free to live and die for whomever you want. You're not free from the cycle of light and dark, though. Of course not – that would be absurd. But still you, Gael, are… free?

If you're even Gael anymore.

"The Red Hood has come to eat our dark souls," they scream. "The Red Hood comes for us!"

Nobody remembers the red hoods of the slave knights. Now there is only one red hood. You are the Red Hood. You like this name. It is as though every one of your fallen fellow undead marches with you. They'd do the same, surely. If they'd all kept their sanity for as long as you, if they'd all seen what you have seen, they would surely now seek the Dark Soul as you do.

A cold, dark, gentle place.

It was all dry. It shouldn't be. Not yet. It must be spread in splashes of heat and cold and light and dark across a canvas, and only then should it dry.

You can feel it now, pulling you in. What a comfort it is, after so many battles, after so much fighting – it is a promise of nothingness, of a world that will never ask you for anything. You can imagine it now. It would be like the void between death and bonfire, but eternal. Peaceful.

But not for you. You know that now. You can't remember how many steps ago, but somewhere along the way you lost… something. You don't even know what.

Step by step.

And now, always, you can hear it calling to you. The Dark Soul. It has always been a part of you, but now the roles are reversed and _you_ are a part of _it._ And it wants more. It always wants more. It is an emptiness, a hunger insatiable. Somewhere in that vast void, you know, there was once a thing that called itself Gael. There was once hope and faith and willpower.

You know you once knew Gael. You know you once _knew_ Gael. But now it slips, soul by soul and kill by kill, it slips away. What happened? Why did he start? Step by step was the mantra, but you think there was a painting, a girl – but now you also see a hat, a sun, a mask, all little dark souls that were once people and are now _you,_ because there is only _you._ You are everything and everyone.

Once, perhaps not even too long ago, you knew why Gael started down this path. But step by step, it has faded behind you, and now you are no longer the last slave knight, you are simply _the last_. There is nobody else…

Nobody save for you and that little figure up there on the dune, whose soul might put your endless hunger to rest.

 _Step by step._

You are the Red Hood.

 _Soul by soul._

You are the Dark.

 _And you want more._

And, without quite knowing why, you thank Gael for his service.


	5. Tarkus

How will they remember you?

History remembers many people from many walks of life. History remembers Knight Artorias for his selfless sacrifice. History remembers Bishop Havel for his grand betrayal. History remembers Big Hat Logan for his intellect and advances in sorcery.

None of these men set out to become famous. They set out to _achieve_ something: to protect those they loved; to fight for what they believed in; to uncover ancient secrets. How about you? Why are _you_ here?

How will _you_ be remembered?

Tarkus.

Back home, they know you as Tarkus. Tarkus the Brave. Tarkus the Tall. Tarkus the Strong. You feel like a fraud. What have you done _really?_ All your knightly feats are nothing. They were achieved in pursuit of fame. And fame you have, for now. But fame hasn't filled the hole inside you. Always you ask yourself: what comes next? What comes after the fame?

Time. And age. And death.

And then—not all at once—you will be forgotten.

Nothing can fill that terrifying void, no matter how hard you try.

No matter how many false knights you topple.

No matter how many true knights you surpass.

How will they remember you? As the Last Knight of Berenike.

Who named you Tarkus anyway? Your mother, long before she knew that you would become Berenike's Last Knight. It's a more fitting name than 'Tarkus'. It says something about the man you are now. Tarkus was a name given to a little baby. And now you are a knight.

But even that name might one day fade. What comes next? Time. And age. And death. Kingdoms, as many have come to find in recent years, may not be entirely immortal.

And, illogical though it is, you always did feel a swell of pride when a stranger recognised you as Tarkus. It never filled the void, but it staved it off a little longer. A shame there aren't many strangers left in the shrinking world. Well... friendly strangers.

How will they remember you? These white-gowned menaces, daggers in their hands.

Who is 'Tarkus' to them? Who is a knight to them? These immortal servants of immortal gods. Nobody will remember them; they are uniform, anonymous, indistinguishable, but they can remember. They _will_ remember.

You will make _sure_ that they remember, before the end.

And how will they remember you? Not as Tarkus. Not as a knight. They will never know your name, and never know all your deeds. They will only remember a faceless man in black iron armour who _refused_ to stop fighting, even when his body broke against the cathedral floor.

He won't be remembered as self-sacrificing. He won't be remembered as a man fuelled by his convictions. He won't be remembered as a discoverer or an explorer.

But he never set out to be any of those things. He set out to be remembered. And they will remember him as Black Iron.

It doesn't fill the void. But it's his name. His perfect epithet. It's the best he could ask for.


End file.
